


What do you need me for?

by a_pocket_full_of_fancy_words



Series: The Game [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky needs to be beaten and Steve needs to be needed, Catharsis, Emotional Porn, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Impact Play, It's All Okay In The End, Lack of Communication, M/M, No Clear Boundaries, Power Play, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Smut, Spanking, Strapping, Unexplored Romantic Relationship, Weirdly Intense Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1578437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_pocket_full_of_fancy_words/pseuds/a_pocket_full_of_fancy_words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a game that they play, but they don't really talk about it.<br/>And neither of them seem to know the rules.</p><p>For the prompt: Pre-serum Steve spanking Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What do you need me for?

It's a game that they play, but they don't really talk about it. Bucky has been thinking about it though, thinking a lot about changing the game up. So far he's not been willing to risk Steve's trust or disgust, and the handful of times they have played it this year he's bottled out of saying or doing anything out of their routine.

There's only so much two men can get away with in a tenement in Brooklyn before their neighbours or at least the men concerned begin to ask questions, and The Game is one of their noisier activities. Well. Bucky thinks it's a game, because if it isn't then he has no idea why they do it, and he's unwilling to examine the situation further.

If The Game had a name, it could be “tell me what you need”, but it could just as well be called “tell Steve that you need him”, because that's really what it is.

They've been playing The Game for a damn long time, and they don't talk about it when they aren't playing it. Bucky has no idea why his standard response is what it is, but he doesn't suppose that matters because they both seem to get something out of it anyway.

Maybe The Game could be called, “tell me that you've been bad”.

 

_Nobody needs me, Buck._

_I need you._

_What do you need me for?_

_Lots of things. To keep me in line._

 

It's a cool day, but Steve is shirtless, washing as much of his clothing as possible for the week ahead.

“Tell me what you need?” Steve asks, casual and gentle and completely unassuming from behind him whilst Bucky lies on the floor trying to get a particular line of charcoal to smudge how he wants it. If Bucky tells him he needs a glass of water, or a new red water colour, or nothing at all, Steve will act as though that was the intention of the question all along. It doesn't actually seem to matter what the answer is, so long as Steve can provide and there is something Bucky wants, he enjoys the delivery. 

“I need you to keep me in line,” Bucky tells him, because he does and because he wants to.

“How should I do that?” Steve asks, as though he'd still take “tell me when to stop drinking” for an answer.

He rolls over to lie on his back, putting a hand up that Steve takes loosely. He wants to have Steve use the long wooden paintbrush he's just put away, but materials are expensive and neither of them can afford to have them break. “I dunno. Looks like that belt of yours could keep a lot of guys in line.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, already unbuckling it one handed. “Would be a shame to wear your pants out, since they haven't done anything wrong.”

This is how The Game goes; it begins with banter that leads to Bucky without pants on and a joke about Steve is punishing him not his underwear.

Steve's hand tightens around his wrist and he pulls him to his feet, or rather Bucky stands up, since Steve couldn't lift him if he tried, which he has, and Bucky hates to see Steve fail at something when he can prevent it.

Sometimes Bucky takes his own pants off, but other times, when Steve needs to control someone or something, or just do every little thing for him, they come down by Steve's hand, and this is one of those times.

His shirt and vest are too short to hang down and cover anything; it's one of the first signs of the war to reach US soil: apparently clothes that fit have been banned, or something, not officially rationed but suddenly too expensive for poor folks to get enough of them. Steve stopped growing at least four years ago, but Bucky's still gaining the odd half inch at the shoulder, and nothing really fits.

Steve compels him over the back of the battered couch, smacking his ass with his hand when he moves too slow.

The feel of Steve's soft palm on his skin makes him feel... Bad, but not in any of the ways it should.

Steve's belt was his father's and the leather is heavy, old and well cared for.

Steve snaps the belt across the tops of both thighs just hard enough to sting, then fingers faint red mark he's made. “Tell me what you deserve.”

Bucky shoves his head down into the couch cushions. For Steve this is what counts. Being the only one to deliver what Bucky needs or deserves or whatever. Being asked for it. For Bucky it's more of a humiliation that he has to endure to get to the fun part, but even though he has no idea what this thing that they do is, he knows it goes both ways.

“I need to be beaten,” Is what he finally says. He knows Steve would rather hear “I need you to give me forty strokes,” but he likes the uncertainty and his lack of control, and so, he believes, does Steve. Sort of.

Steve straps him again, a little harder. It's painful, but not so much so that Bucky is forced to react. “Speak clearly.” His voice isn't harsh: It's a simple demand and it's part of the game.

“I need to be beaten,” He says, clearer. His face goes hot and red at the idea of anyone, even Steve, witnessing him beg for further degradation. “Sir.” Steve likes to have a little authority. Not so much as you might think, but Bucky usually throws in a sir or two every time they play The Game.

Steve flicks the belt over his right cheek and then the left, still not swinging in earnest. “How hard? What've you done to get yourself landed here again, Buck?” The interrogation, the admission is all part of The Game.

His face, flushed with shame, is not the only thing filling with blood. “You should – tan my hide. Make me cry.” He hasn't really done anything of note to earn himself Steve's wrath, can't think of anything bad enough off the top of his head to get Steve be as strict as he wants him to be. “Because I want it. I'm messed up and I like it. Make me cry."

He's never admitted that before, and Steve stays quiet for long enough for him to think that Steve won't do it, that he's disgusted or that it's never occurred to him that Bucky gets off on this. Not that Bucky ever gets off on it _in front of_ Steve; neither of them ever acknowledge the fact that he's hard when The Game ends, and he always slinks away to deal with the problem alone. He never looks to see if Steve has issues of his own, because for some reason that seems... Too queer. He's worried he might frighten Steve off.

But Steve just shifts him forward so that his cheeks face up instead of back and pushes his legs down into a better position. There's an uncomfortable moment where Bucky is on much greater display than usual, and then the shock of Steve's hand snaking between his legs to tuck his balls out of the line of fire.

“Remember that you asked for it,” Steve tells him, resting his hand in the small of his back firmly, like it's a warning and he's genuinely misbehaved. Maybe he has.

The first real lick is lost on Bucky who's still caught up in the sensation of Steve's fingers on his balls. The second is a sharp awakening, wrapping around the far cheek a second later.

Steve's stricter than usual, perhaps punishing him for the sudden confusion and for breaking the boundaries they have each carefully and silently erected around The Game. It doesn't matter that Steve isn't strong, the length of the swing and gravity do the work, a heavy smack-thud of leather on flesh that breaks the silence between them, fast and rhythmic as pink builds to purple welts and Bucky's gasps turn to whimpers and groans.

He gets too hot too quickly and they pause for him to struggle out of his shirt, leaving only the vest to cover him. He feels vulnerable, but it's Steve and he likes it.

Steve's had more practice at this than Bucky's father ever managed, and even when he twists or reaches back, nothing seems to stop the onslaught of blow after blistering blow. Steve's already discovered that the best way to stop straying hands or protective feet is to ignore them altogether; a few glancing lashes to the fingertips soon sees them withdrawn to expose the plump, swollen flesh he's been aiming for all along.

Steve focuses on the lower half of each cheek, but as always he lands an unpredictable scattering of the hardest licks on the backs of his thighs from the crease at the top to just above the knee. Bucky thinks he likes to have the bruises on display when they're back in their underwear knocking about the apartment.

The pain rises until he trembles with the need to make it stop, shaking with the effort of keeping his arms and legs still whilst Steve goes back over already sore flesh. His eyes water and his groans become long, drawn out cries with every new welt and bruise.

“You like this?” Steve pauses to ask, panting for breath almost as hard as Bucky is.

He nods mutely because it's all he can do. Steve repositions him roughly, and if his legs are a little further apart than usual, well, he thinks nothing of it.

The belt whooshes through the air once more, catching him sharply on the perineum and sending a jolt through him that's more than just pain.

“I said do you like it?” Steve asks again. He doesn't shout it or growl it, just wheezes slightly on the too-ordinary question. Steve's no bully, even when Bucky's asking for it in the most literal sense.

“Yes!” He chokes, body quivering and limbs jumping around at the memory of pain lingering on his skin and the abused tissue beneath it. “I like it.”

Steve's thumb runs over what feels like it will become a particularly nasty bruise, and Bucky's gasping for a whole load of completely different reasons. Steve's hands feel cool and gentle against the puffy wheels, and he can't help but inch back into them so that Steve is cupping both cheeks.

“Buck...” Steve sounds so unsure of himself that Bucky has to move forward, has to resume The Game to avoid confronting whatever the hell it is.

“Hurt me,” He insists, brushing off old tears. "I like it."

Steve's fingers linger for a second, stroking over marks that Bucky can't see before he takes a half step back. “Prove it,” Steve dares him, and slaps the place where his ass meets his thigh with an open hand.

It hurts, waking up the belt marks that have been buzzing with ambient discomfort for the last minute or so, but it isn't the deep, aching pain of the strap.

A flurry of smacks makes him writhe again, heart beating hard against his ribcage as his movements thrust him against a slick spot that has slowly been appearing on the back of the couch. Steve should punish him for that too.

It's more intimate like this, Steve's hands on him pushing him through this pain. He spanks the same spot again and again until it feels like he's holding a flame to it, wraps his other arm over Bucky's waist to hold him still.

Bucky grinds against the sofa, half to escape the sting and half for the friction, unable to tell his own sobs from moans as Steve moves to the other cheek and slaps up a fire on that one too.

It would be a lie to say that he didn't see this coming – didn't see _him_ coming – but that doesn't stop him from being surprised when it actually happens.

It takes a single slap that catches the tender spot behind his balls, and with a shriek which is more about shock than pleasure or pain, Bucky ruins the sofa cover and finally bursts into desperate, uncontrollable tears.

He hides his face in the couch, unable to move to expose what he's done but equally unable to face Steve.

“I'm sorry!” He coughs through broken sobs, but covers his ears to block out any response Steve might give him. “I didn't mean to!”

He breathes hard into an ugly, damp cushion, refusing to look up. A palm slides over his back, making him jump as Steve slumps awkwardly over the side of the couch to lie next to him without dropping the arm from its embrace.

Bucky stares at the cushion and listens to the slight hiss of air in Steve's chest as Steve strokes his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks. His breathing difficulties are more obvious than Bucky would like and he forces himself to look up to see how he is.

“Yeah,” He says, voice quiet and raw from yelling. He sighs deeply, and Steve's smell, of slight, persistent sickliness and rose soap washes through the panic and slows the blood that rushes through his ears. “Sorry.”

“It's alright.” Steve leans into his own one armed hug, sticky with sweat and warm from exertion. He sniffs and Bucky can't help but get the impression that Steve is smelling him, before he sits up. “We need to clean that up before it dries,” Steve pulls him away, shattering the fantasy he'd been entertaining that his friend had failed to notice what he'd done.

His face is already red from being tipped up so long, but he feels his cheeks grow warm enough to give their southern cousins a run for their money. “You don't... Mind?”

Steve smiles at him, always kind and forgiving. “No. But I'll start minding if you don't get a cloth and make sure it doesn't stain.”

He goes to the bathroom and wets the cloth in the sink. They don't have a real mirror, just a tiny hand mirror and he has to contort in innumerable ways to see all of the bruises Steve has given him, soft dark shadows from the knee to two thirds up his thigh and then angry red and purple splotches that spread out over his ass in thick, angry, criss-crossing lines.

He touches the marks, the raised stripes and hard, swollen bruises.

Bucky comes back out with the cloth and goes to sponge off the sofa. Steve watches him do it, eyes roaming over his own handy work. He moves closer until his delicate chest bumps Bucky's solid back.

“So,” Steve murmurs with none of his earlier confidence. “You really like that?”

“You know I do.” He folds the cloth and wipes the couch again with a clean edge.

“Good,” Steve pulls him back so that he can feel the erection pushing through his pants, rough against sore skin. “I like it too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't actually meant to be nearly so intense, it happened by mistake because I'm that kind of sadist who likes my beatings to have a psychological edge to them.  
> I'm not even sure if this counts as smut any more, but uh, I hope you like it.


End file.
